


Shadows in Scarlet

by shirleyholmes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Vampire, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Blood Drinking, Case Fic, Crossover, Drama, Drunk John, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, First Time, Frottage, Gambling, Gaslighting, Gothic, Graphic Description of Corpses, Historical, Immortality, Interview With The Vampire - Freeform, Lesbian Character, M/M, Mind Manipulation, Misogyny, Multi, Murder, Murder Mystery, Mystery, Near Death Experience, Non Consensual, POV Sherlock Holmes, POV Third Person, Period-Typical Homophobia, Power Play, Prostitution, References to Drug Use, Romance, Rough Sex, Sexual Violence, Slash, Vampire Chronicles, Vampire Sherlock, Vampire Turning, Vampires, Victorian, Violence, because vampires basically, gaslight romance, i just come up with these tags as I write the scenes can you tell?, whitechapel murders
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-26
Updated: 2013-08-12
Packaged: 2017-12-13 01:28:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/818358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shirleyholmes/pseuds/shirleyholmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock/Interview with the Vampire fusion-- London, 1887</p><p>Sherlock Holmes is Gentleman Death in silk and lace-- a cold, cynical vampire ever-desperate for something to break the tedium of eternity. He finds it in Dr. John Watson, a depressed war-hero committing slow suicide through drink and the dangers of London's gambling dens. </p><p>Their strange friendship is fraught with difficulty from the onset-- but their lives truly take a turn for the macabre when they find themselves at the center of a gruesome (and infamous) murder spree.</p><p>..............</p><p>“But really Sherlock—You just would have to pick the one with the goddamned hero complex.”</p><p>*WARNING: ALL STORIES ARE ON HIATUS WHILE I'M ABROAD. WILL BE CONTINUED IN DECEMBER, SO VERY SORRY FOR THE WAIT"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 26th December, 1887

**Author's Note:**

> A crossover I promised the prompter a while back and am just now attempting, albeit with my own twist. If you're not familiar with Anne Rice, realize that her vampires tend to be terrifying, dramatic, funny, violent, and very sexual. Sherlock here has a bit more of his Victorian original's personality, as do John and Irene-- particularly Irene, actually. They just sort of adapted to the time, I suppose. 
> 
> Final warning for explicit sex, often of the dubiously consensual vampire variety, graphic violence, and implied rape/non-con.

He stalked the night, the shadows gleaming under the cold, blue-bright moon. Humanity surged around him slow, stupid, meandering. Dull, all of them. Dull, but fragrant, for he was hungry and weak, having spent far too long without a meal. Again. 

A woman caught his eye. One of the fallen women of the night, the only ones who would be loitering about alone at this time. Fair and supple, with delicious red-roses in her cheeks and tightly corseted, the better to show off the round globes of her plump breasts. An easy catch—if he had been less hungry, he would have said too easy. But as it was, he could feel his mouth begin to water in anticipation. She looked up when she felt his unabashed stare and smiled through her eyelashes.

“Lookin’ for somethin’, sir? Mayhaps I could help?” 

Interesting. She was blatantly forward, and, as he strode towards her, he realized that she was younger than he had thought and, under her all gaudy ornaments, possibly even pretty. 

“But what could you possibly be doing here?” he wondered aloud, as he stepped into her shadowed corner. “Hardly usual for a lady of your stature, is it, to be gamboling about in streetwalker’s clothing?”

The blood drained from her face, the powder and rouge barely hiding the sudden paleness of her cheeks. 

“I dunno wha’ ye means—“ 

“Oh, do drop the tiresome accent,” he snapped suddenly. “It is perfectly obvious, of course, that you are originally of a wealthy family—there are numerous signs, from the state of your fingernails, to the hemming of your skirt--- the pearls in your ears.”

“Bu’ guv’nor—“

“They are real,” he continued crisply. “--- and you choose to showcase them, as opposed to squirrel them away or sell them, as any woman truly in poverty would have done. Furthermore, your affected common speech is perfectly atrocious. No one but gentry would believe that is how the masses speak.”

She drew herself up to her full height, which was rather tall for a woman, and stepped boldly into his space. Her breasts pressed up against his chest, her red lips inches from his face. “Seems to me you talk a rather lot and do very little,” she remarked, her voice changing jarringly fast into that of the London aristocrat she so very clearly was. 

He grabbed her hand as it attempted to trail, unwelcomed, across his collarbone. His other hand plunged unceremoniously into her laced bodice, extracting a sheathed dagger before she could do more than gasp in mortified protest.

“And there's the entire sordid tale, I presume,” he said with a disappointed sigh, dangling it in front of her face. “Tell me, did you decide murdering potential clients would be profitable before or after your husband ran off with another woman?” 

Her eyes widened and she attempted to step back, but he tightened his arm across his waist and held her fast. “After, I do believe,” he breathed, bending close to hear the lovely pounding of her heart. “After and he took the money, did he? And you’re proud—proud, yes, nothing like a spot of murder to cast a mantle over the shame of poverty.” 

“Let go—“ she said, her voice trembling. “I do not understand. Who are you? What do you want?”

He sighed. Her thoughts were a turbulent, if predictable, stream, and reading them was wearying. 

“Nothing you cannot give, Miss Fey,” he promised gravely. The shadows hid them well, but he knew she saw it—the glint of his teeth in the queer half-light. He clapped his hand over her mouth, even as she struggled against him, wild with fear. 

“Do not scream or I shall kill you,” he told her bluntly. 

“Who are you? ” she hissed again when she could speak, tears brimming over in her eyes. “A demon? A devil? You sold your soul to the devil, you foul creature— “

“No dearest,” he told her gently. “You are the one who did that.” 

Her voice broke off in a gasp as he sank his teeth into her slender neck. He could feel the fluttering of her heart and was lost in the splendor of it, the dull thundering in his ears, the metallic vitality dancing across his tongue. But all too soon it slowed and he broke away reluctantly. She slumped in his arms and he supported her limp body as he dropped to his knees, gently laying her out on the pavement. 

“I am Sherlock Holmes,” he told the corpse coldly. “And I never had a soul to sell.” 

……………

The whore was not his usual fare. Her blood churned disagreeably through his veins and he fancied that it clogged them, caused his brain to slow and his footsteps to stumble. Perhaps that is why he ended up where he did, in that sordid, stinking den on the outskirts of town. 

He was still hungry, despite having glutted himself on murderer’s blood and this was the best place to find the criminals, the cheap and the tawdry, the violent and the stupid. The gamblers and the drinkers and the drug addicts, here is where they all gathered to forget, just for a few moments, the irrelevant tragedies of their pathetic lives. 

Sherlock was bored of them already. If he hadn’t been so hungry, he would never have come here—he preferred, always, to carefully stalk his prey, to pluck off only the cleverest of the criminals, the most evil of the Earth’s scum. Not out of a sense of justice, of course--he was no vigilante. No, Sherlock hunted for his own amusement only. He hunted for the game and he hunted those who played it well.

It had been a long time, though, since anyone had played it very well at all. He had been feeding on a steady stream of petty criminals and it was absurdly tedious, this need to draw blood even when he was entirely uninspired by the person whom he drew it from. Hunting had become less sport and more a necessity and so Sherlock’s only hope was that he’d find his domestic abuser or his pick-pocket soon and then he could head home and find something strong (of the 7% variety, preferably) with which to while away some of the mind-numbing tedium of eternity. 

Tonight, there was something unusual though. The main patrons were gathered about a small table in the corner. The air above it was thick with cheap tobacco vapors and the alcohol spilled generously across the velvet tablecloth. They were excited by something. A new player, then, someone different, perhaps yes, even someone exciting.

Sherlock doubted it would be worth his time. But now he was curious, and so he turned up his coat collar and sauntered over, sweeping casually through the thick swarm of bodies. 

There—a greasy looking man scowled as he drew cards from a small pile in the center of the table. Sherlock had never cared to keep track of the card games. Games of chance, rather than strategy, offered him no amusement. 

“Carte blanche,” said the man across from him, his gruff voice unapologetically British despite the French expression. He was on the short side, stocky and blonde, with tanned skin and honest blue eyes. Neatly, if not extravagantly dressed. But what caught Sherlock’s eye was something entirely different---unlike most of the other patrons in this vile den, he did not wear the eye shades or drooping hats used to conceal the face. Dangerous that he did not, but admittedly intriguing— this was clearly a man with nothing to lose. 

Sherlock sank into a shadowy corner and decided to watch. No doubt the mystery of the man without the shades would prove to be dull in the end—perhaps even just simple stupidity. But he could afford to sit here and observe, just for a while.

After all, he had eternity--- and precious little to do with it.  
…………..

The man was ex-military, recently invalided home from Afghanistan. His leg bothered him, it seemed, but only when he was not engrossed in the game before him and more so when he lost.

And he lost quite a bit, that night, as he carelessly poured his purse onto the table. He drank quite a bit too, glass after glass of something potent and smelly. Sherlock did not know much about drinking alcohol, distasteful stuff that it was, but he was fairly sure that most humans would not have been able to play after consuming that much of it. He was also fairly sure that one did not drink and gamble as the man had been doing unless one was trying very hard to lose one’s self, though he could not pick up the thread of the man’s thoughts to confirm his theory without letting in the chattering din of the masses around him. 

And so that was it, was it? Mystery solved---a former army officer looking for entertainment, despondent without military life to occupy himself with (the story was common enough). He could be on his way then.

Sherlock stayed. He told himself it was because this man was healthy-looking and no doubt had delicious blood. He imagined how strong his heart must be, how much he would fight to keep it pumping. This man was clearly a soldier, and perhaps it would be nice, to have a change of pace, and to take a fighter.

“Alrigh’, Dr. Watson,” the greasy man from earlier said, finally, hours later. He clapped a hand on the blonde man’s shoulder. “Seems you outta to be getting home.” 

The blonde man—Watson—started. “One more round,” he said vaguely, holding up one unsteady finger to the other man’s face. “Oblige me, Smith and then I'll be on my way. I’m right as—well, completely fine, see?”

Smith snorted. “Right, ‘course you are. You said that last night too and then you went and slammed righ’ into my nice statue, didn’ you?” 

Watson waved him off. “Indeed—and paid handsomely for it too.” 

Smith shrugged and plucked Watson’s wallet out of his open hand. “Jus’ a bit then,” he said, replacing the wallet. But Sherlock, noticed, with a flash of rage, that he had taken a rather large helping of shillings from it first.

He could not have told you later what made him do it. But he unfolded himself from his corner and slipped forwards. Watson was glaring at a hand of cards, as if they had personally wronged him (possibly they had—Sherlock really knew nothing about these games). He hesitatingly brushed Watson’s shoulder. 

“There you are,” he said familiarly. “Watson, I have been looking for you absolutely everywhere.”

“Sorry?” The man twisted about and peered up suspiciously at him. “I do not believe I know you—“

“Ah, but Smith does. Do you not, Smith?” Sherlock asked him pleasantly. “And I doubt he wants more trouble with the law, not after the last time I had to ask the Inspector to take a look at this wonderful establishment—tell me, Smith, would you like to return the money you pickpocketed now or in gaol?” 

Smith gritted his teeth. “Mister Holmes. I did not realize—“

“Of course you did not. That is why you are a common imbecile and I am Sherlock Holmes. Now kindly return Watson’s coins—we have to be getting on.” 

Watson’s eyes widened as Smith sulkily handed over a handful of gold coins. “I—“

“Not the best place for you, I venture” Sherlock observed dryly. “Perhaps we might step out?”

Watson nodded and stood hastily. His leg quivered dangerously under him and it was apparent, now, that he was not entirely unaffected by the copious amounts of alcohol. “Quite right,” he said unenthusiastically. He staggered forwards and Sherlock caught him neatly by the waist. 

Watson breathed out. “So—“

“Time to go,” Sherlock told him firmly. Watson’s head lolled forwards peaceably onto Sherlock’s shoulder, exposing his tanned neck. Sherlock swallowed and looked away. 

“She’s going to murder me,” he muttered cryptically. “ I do hope you are all quite satisfied.” 

And with that, he lugged the doomed doctor out of the den, conscious that every pair of eyes was following them out. 

……………

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've read a lot of Victorian age literature/have google open, but I've never actually written any period fiction. So feel absolutely free to point out any glaring anachronisms/Americanisms. Or just comment/critique and I'll love you forever.


	2. 27th December, 1887

“Again, darling?” Irene asked disapprovingly, when Sherlock swept into their luxurious flat a little too close to dawn. Irene always seemed convinced he would forget to come home entirely one of these days, though by now it would hardly matter. 

“I am far too old to be bothered by an absurd little thing like the sun,” he told her impatiently. 

“You attract more attention in the light,” she returned. “And ever since Joseph decided to write that perfectly horrid little book, people _notice _.”__

“Oh?” Sherlock said dispassionately. He stalked over to the bed and sat down, impatiently eyeing the dramatic tableau before him. “And precisely whose fault is that ‘perfectly horrid little book’?” 

Irene frowned as she lounged sensuously on the draped bed, her soft, pale skin gleaming in the candlelight. A woman with her throat bared, her expression still frozen in horror, lay slumped across her lap, leaking blood onto Irene’s bare skin. Irene ran her fingers through the auburn curls, stroking gently. 

“Well, you can hardly lay the blame at my doorstep,” she said silkily. She smeared some of the blood about the neck and raised her fingers to her mouth, delicately licking it off. “I just seem to inspire great literature.”

Sherlock snorted. “ 'Carmilla' does not, if I recall correctly, fall under the categorization of “great literature”. From what I gather, it is a sensationalist, erotic story based on your entirely unsubtle manipulations.” 

“Who said erotica could not be great literature?” She offered him a blood-covered finger, completely unperturbed. “Here, do try it—she is quite delicious.” 

Sherlock sniffed contemptuously. “I have no interest in your common trollops.”

“Oh, really?” Irene smiled, the sphinx-like smile that never quite reached her eyes. It was the smile that said she knew more about him than he did himself and Sherlock despised it. “Do you know--I cleaned up quite the mess near Commercial Street today. Some poor whore, who I found slumped in the corner. Who did that, I wonder?”

Sherlock scowled. “She wasn’t a whore, as you would know if you bothered to so much as pay an iota of attention to your surroundings. Your gifts are wasted on you.” 

Irene shrugged. “YOU are the one who does not appreciate the gifts, darling.” She stretched lazily and shifted so that she could lay her dark head in his lap. 

“The tactile pleasure of skin gone cold,” she purred, reaching up to gently stroke his lips. “Their expressions, when your kiss turns to poison and pain—that is the real beauty of this life. Not glutting yourself on the blood of criminals and that too, only when you are nearly too weak to stand--no wonder you’re always bored.” 

Sherlock thought of John Watson, of his warm, soft skin, his vulnerable head trustingly laid on Sherlock’s shoulder. Irene would be delighted to know that Sherlock had hauled him out of the den with the single-minded purpose of feeding on him. A normal man, not a criminal, not a pervert--- just this ex-military doctor, who had so caught his attention. 

She would be less delighted to know that he had let him go in the end, unwilling or unable to drink from him.

“Thank you,” the man had said gratefully, when Sherlock brought him into the cool night air. “By Jove, you ARE a good sort, —Not a lot of those around, I guess.”

He had pushed at Sherlock’s chest--- And Sherlock had realized that he was still gripping Watson about the waist, in a close embrace that the other man would no doubt find entirely inappropriate. 

Except Watson had not looked discomfited at all. He had simply grinned up at Sherlock, like they were the oldest of friends, and said; “John Watson, by the by. Nice to meet you—Mister Holmes, is it? ” 

And Sherlock had nodded dumbly and bought him a hansom cab. He had practically lifted Watson in too, telling himself that he was full after all. He would track the doctor tomorrow, when he was less inebriated, and help himself then—have a bit of a hunt first, to whet his appetite. 

“I am not bored.” Sherlock said now, rather absently. He got up and Irene hissed in displeasure as she was unceremoniously ousted from her comfortable position. Sherlock flashed a rogue smile back at her, as he headed off to his coffin for the night.

“Not anymore.” 

………………………

Sherlock rose the next night to find Irene peering at him curiously, her arms crossed on the edge of his ebony coffin. “I was thinking,” she said immediately, as if she was merely continuing a previous conversation. 

“And I presume that is unusual enough to incite comment now?” Sherlock was always a bit annoyed whenever she figured out how to open his coffin. He had assumed the lovely viper he had picked up from his last case would dissuade her, but the useless thing was curled benignly around her neck instead, it’s tail hanging between her still-bare breasts. She had at least deigned to put on a filmy skirt, though it bunched uselessly about her waist and thighs. 

“I adore your little pet,” she said, when she caught him looking at it. She clucked at the snake, which hissed in pleasure. “I do believe it likes me better though.” 

Probably it did, at that. Most things did. Sherlock glared balefully at the traitorous reptile, which merely flicked it’s tail contentedly. 

“Anyways darling—I was thinking. Let’s have a bit of a—well, I suppose a /party/.” The way she said ‘party’ was immediately suspicious. Not that Sherlock trusted her to begin with, but there was something decidedly upsetting about the way she drew out the word. 

Sherlock supposed he might as well get up. He stretched, taking care to avoid the snake. Not that it could hurt him, but he knew from experience just how painful those jagged little teeth were. He wondered, idly, if his own hurt just as much. 

“Here,” he said suddenly, offering Irene his hand. “Bite me.”

She smirked. “Of course," she drawled. “I would be delighted—but first about this party.” 

“Absolutely not,” Sherlock interrupted brusquely, answering both her statements at once. “No to the party and no, I have no interest in your various commodities. Now. Bite.” 

“But why?”

“I want to test how sharp our fangs are, relative to something more natural,” he said impatiently, mostly because he knew she would not stop querying until he explained himself. 

“Oh. But—you HAVE been bitten by a vampire,” she said, as if it were obvious. “Surely you remember when you were made?” 

Sherlock stiffened. “You know the answer to that very well.” 

He lifted himself from his coffin instead and brushed past her, ignoring her annoyed yelp. “I have things to attend to,” he told her shortly. “And no doubt you want to invite your usual riff-raff over to rifle through my things—“

“I am going to the opera tonight,” she interrupted, apparently having decided to let him divert the conversation. “There’s a singer there—well.” She smiled sharply, her fangs curving out over her lovely lips. “I think I'll invite her back for a glass of wine. I do so LOVE the opera, after all.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Pray ensure that their are no bloodstains on the carpet come morning. Ms. Hudson was not pleased with having to scrub them out last time.”

“But where are you going?” she called after him. Sherlock paused.

“I believe,” he said slowly. “That I might indulge in a game of piquet.”

Irene’s mouth was still hanging open when he left. All told, it was quite satisfying.  
…….

John Watson had found another joint today, one even seedier than the last, with crumbling brick walls and a definite odor of sweat and spilled wine. 

Sherlock had already decided that he was not going to approach him. He would simply watch for a bit, as he had done the night before. And then he would ask Watson to stroll with him and lead him into a nice, deserted place and back him up against a wall so that he could drink in peace. Sherlock did not share Irene’s penchant for drama and silk sheets--- an alleyway would do, in all likelihood. Besides, bringing Watson home would almost certainly be a mistake. Irene would find him charming, of course, and that was precisely the problem, because Sherlock did not share very well and he was not about to start now. 

There was something undeniably appealing though, about the idea of the blonde man on silk sheets. Sherlock bit his lip and watched Watson lay out his cards on the table. He was safely ensconced in an armchair that was far enough from the gaslight to prevent recognition, but close enough that his unnaturally sharp eyes could take in every detail of Watson’s movements. He had also taken the added precaution of changing his old-fashioned wool frock coat for a more fitted, dark-green jacket and of grabbing a distasteful deerstalker that Irene had picked up years ago on a whim. The wide brim and earflaps amply shaded his face, though the cap itself was absolutely absurd. 

Watson, however, had still made no effort to disguise himself. He was dressed in the same faded blue coat of yesterday, which was practically inviting trouble. And he was losing as extravagantly as he had last night. Surely even probability dictated that he ought to have won something by now? Nevertheless, his hands were steady—doctor’s hands, calloused and warm. Sherlock remembered the touch of them on his bare skin-- what was it Irene had said? Something about tactile pleasures... Maybe she meant the brush of those strong hands across Sherlock's neck and chest. Curved about his waist. One would hold him fast, while the other trailed down, cupping his prick through the layers of material...

It had been a long time since Sherlock had wanted anyone like that. 

Sherlock could hear fringes of Watson's thoughts from here, if he concentrated. But he surprised himself by refusing to do so. He did not want to hear that John Watson was a dullard—that he was ordinary and plodding like everyone else. Once, Sherlock would have jumped at the chance to know everything in a heartbeat. But the years had taught him that amusement ought to be savored, for as long as it would last, and that the novelty of instant knowledge, acquired through virtual /cheating/, faded fast. 

Sometime soon, perhaps, he would become bored. But until then---Sherlock was willing to wait for John Watson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to Wikipedia---Carmilla is a Gothic novella by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu. First published in 1872, it tells the story of a young woman's susceptibility to the attentions of a female vampire named Carmilla. Carmilla predates Bram Stoker's Dracula by 25 years, and has been adapted many times for cinema.
> 
> I just really like the novel and couldn't resist.


	3. 27th December- 23rd February, 1888

Sherlock never touched him. Not that night, nor any of the nights after. For some reason he was content to wait, lurking in the shadows (often in his ridiculous cap), and imagining scenarios which grew disturbingly more lurid with every passing day. 

Irene tried to wheedle the mystery of his nightly disappearances out of him and, when that did not work, she tried stalking him herself. But Sherlock had been very good at subterfuge even when he was alive and now he was merely a shadow, creeping quietly through back alleyways and impossible to catch.

Irene swept scornfully past the odd, homeless man on the street, never even suspecting that the man she so disdained was Sherlock himself. A minute later, Sherlock pulled off his beard with a flourish and ducked triumphantly into that evening’s den, a dark little abode dubiously (and no doubt inappropriately) named “La maison de l’ange”. He was amply rewarded by hearing John Watson utterly massacre the name several times that night, much to the displeasure of the den’s owner. 

And so it might have gone on, for half an eternity, if John had not made the mistake of winning one fatal night. .Sherlock watched, enraptured, as the flush of victory caused a brilliant redness to creep across his cheeks in the dim light. John was a careful winner, slightly pleased with himself, though not overtly so. It surprised Sherlock that he was not more pleased—surely he did not have the wealth to play as he did, recklessly squandering his money? But perhaps he did, after all, and simply did not care for the little luxuries of life. For despite all the days, he realized, he still knew next to nothing about John. 

John (and since when had he started referring to him so familiarly? He had known the man for all of a few weeks, the mere blink of an eye in the span of his life—  
Well, he would call him whatever he liked in privacy of his own his own head)

Anyways, John’s body told him nothing new, nothing except for the fact that he had an alcoholic brother he disliked and that he was still deeply affected by the war. Sherlock knew too, that he lived close by, that his flat was decrepit and peeling. And that was it, for he had not gone inside, stopped by some absurd, here-thro latent shred of morality. Frustrating, to say the least, that it had chosen to inconveniently manifest itself at this late date. Because Sherlock wanted more. He wanted the taste of John’s skin and the flush of his body heat—he wanted the mysteries of his story, all his stories, the shape of the wound in his arm and the pain in his soft eyes. 

The night wore on and, all too soon, Watson had staggered to his feet, his ungainly, stuffed purse caught up in one hand. He either did not notice or did not care to notice the leers that followed him out, the faces of immoral, petty men who were not used to losing and did not take to it kindly. Sherlock waited as Watson left, eyeing the remaining men sharply. 

He trusted no one with his doctor and least of all this putrescent scum. And sure enough, four of the men followed John out the door within seconds. Sherlock sprang to his feet and followed them in turn. He’d be damned if he’d let them touch a single dusty-blonde hair. 

They overtook him in a dark alleyway, because John clearly did not have the sense to walk through lighted streets when inebriated. What he did have, however, was a powerful right hook. Sherlock watched, mildly impressed, as he dropped his walking stick and decimated at least two of his attackers. He had used to love boxing, once, before his supernatural strength made participating in the ring entirely pointless. John took a jibe at the third one, but Sherlock caught the flash as one more snuck up behind him, something cold and steely glinting in his fleshy hand. 

“Behind you,” he shouted in panic, before he could stop himself. John looked up, distracted for a moment, but Sherlock was onto the unfortunate men now. He snarled furiously at the one over John’s shoulder, landing a solid punch in his abdomen. The man doubled over, wheezing and Sherlock heard the satisfying thump behind him as John made short work of the last one. 

“Is he dead?” asked John. He was already kneeling to check the man’s pulse. Sherlock found his misplaced concern oddly endearing. 

“None of them are,” Sherlock admitted grudgingly. “Though if you so desire---“

“No, I do not believe that I do, thank you all the same.”

Sherlock nodded, adjusting his cap solidly over his eyes. “Then we should leave,” he said and, taking John by the arm, he propelled him away from the mess of bodies . 

……………

Sherlock pushed John up against a brick wall and examined him thoughtfully, ignoring his feeble protests. Blood trickled down from a slash across his palm, but other than that, he seemed entirely fine, if a bit dazed. He was not even as far in his cups as he normally was. It occurred to Sherlock that now would be a perfect time to take him—they were alone, after all, their bodies pressed quite naturally against each other, their faces mere inches apart. John’s leg had insinuated itself between Sherlock’s thighs and his injured hand sought purchase in the heavy fabric at Sherlock’s elbow. 

Sherlock carefully covered it with his own palm. He could feel the slick blood painting a line across his pale skin and he resisted the urge to draw the hand to his mouth. He wanted to suck on each of the fingers in turn and then lick the palm clean, to feel out each of the callouses with his tongue and cover them with blood-soaked kisses. 

“Who are you?” John asked him, breaking the spell. Sherlock looked up to find the surprisingly clear eyes fixed on his face. He said nothing. The deerstalker still hid part of his face and he ought to make a decision--- he could either claim John as his prize or slink off into the shadows unrecognized. But he could not muster the motivation to do either and so he simply crowded John further into the wall, sensing rather than feeling the welcome warmth of the smaller man’s body, as it seeped through his clothing. 

“Because you have been following me for quite some time,” he remarked, much to Sherlock’s shock. “And I have yet to have the pleasure of seeing your face.”

Sherlock hesitated and decided to simply bluster his way through the sticky mess. “You might find it less of a pleasure than you presume,” he said carefully. “And as for following you—I hardly know how you came about that absurd assumption. Fortune was simply with you.I stumbled across you and your charming friends on my way home from another den.”

John eyed him, almost kindly. “My dear fellow—you hardly expect me to believe that? There's been a man in a deerstalker at quite a few places I've frequented in the past few weeks--- and it's not as if anyone actually wears those things about, you know.” He cast a pointed glance at the awful hat. Sherlock was remarkably displeased with himself—he had always been a master of disguise, but clearly he had grown careless over the years. He’d fallen into the trap of assuming that humanity was too stupid to notice anything, even when it was staring them in the face. He was right most of the time, of course, but that condescending attitude was bound to land him in the occasional spot of trouble. 

“Here, allow me,” John continued. His hands cupped Sherlock’s face briefly, before trailing up to grasp at the damned earflaps. Sherlock thought vaguely about backing away, but John had already begun slipping the hat off, his fingers as careful and steady as they looked. 

“Mister Holmes,” he blurted in surprise. He began to smile. “Why, I ought to thank you again then—you appear to have quite the gift for saving me.”

Sherlock had not expected him to remember their brief encounter weeks earlier. But clearly John did, for his face was alight with happiness. “Though I suppose never even thanked you properly for the last time,” John said wryly and suddenly, Sherlock couldn’t bear it.

“Don’t thank me,” he said hastily. “I am not—I am not the man you presume me to be. And you should hardly trust strangers, it will bring you no end of trouble.”

John cupped his face again, his eyes guileless and amused. “You are hardly a stranger at this point,” he said. “Why, if anything--- perhaps you're my guardian angel.”

“No,” Sherlock said, quite firmly. “Do not ascribe your sentimental hogwash to me. Angels do not exist. And if they did, I most certainly would not be one of them.” 

John said nothing, but his fingers stroked Sherlock's cheek distractedly, as if to soothe. Sherlock bent forwards, wanting, irrationally, to hide his face in the tempting curve of John’s neck. John tightened his arms around him in response, as if he was something that could be kept, even treasured, and Sherlock felt something break in the corner of his heart. 

“Come home with me,” he said, before he could properly consider the consequences. “Please.” 

He could feel John nodding into his hair. “I will,” he said. “Of course I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Going to apologize right here for any egregious typos, because I am writing this at break-neck speed during my free time, which at the moment is mostly when I'm up at all hours because of jet-lag.


	4. 23rd February, 1888

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've added dates because they're probably going to be needed-- they might change around a bit, but they should stay within a few days of the current dates. ACD Sherlock and Watson actually met a few years earlier than 1888, so just assume John (and Sherlock's body, I suppose, since he doesn't age) are about 5 years younger than their ACD counterparts-- there's a reason for that, I promise. 
> 
> Also, someone astute brought up that Sherlock has not fed for quite a while-- don't fret, our dear detective is drawing blood occasionally. You'll see how within the next few chapters, though I'm sure fans of Anne Rice might have a few good guesses.

“I don’t make a habit of following strange men home, you understand,” John told him as they made their slow way back to Baker Street. “But as you followed me first, perhaps it is only appropriate.” 

“I thought I was not ‘strange’, as you put it.” 

“No, you are quite strange,” John told him bluntly. “I never denied it. What I said, precisely, was that you are not a stranger.” He paused thoughtfully. “Though I suppose we still know hardly anything about each other, so perhaps following you home is still a horrid choice.” He seemed unperturbed by that thought. Odd, to say the least. Sherlock narrowed his eyes. 

“I know you are an army doctor and that you have been invalided home from Afghanistan,” he said at a fast clip. “I know you have got a brother who is quite worried about you, but you will not go to him for help because you do not approve of him—possibly because he has an addiction to alcohol but more likely because he left his wife. And I know that there is something quite wrong with your leg, but that it is almost entirely in your head. Does that satisfy you?” 

John frowned down at his walking stick. “I suppose someone told you all that then. Was I recognized?”

“Nothing of the sort, though it is entirely possible you were recognized, given your penchant for running about your sordid little clubs without so much as a shade.”

“Then how on Earth—“

Sherlock Holmes prided himself on many things, but humility was certainly not one of them. He couldn't resist.

“You are a gentleman of a medical type, but with the air of a military man. An army doctor, then. You have just come from the tropics, for your face is dark, and that is not the natural tint of your skin, for your wrists are fair. Your right leg has been injured, as suggested by the stiff and unnatural way you hold it--but you forgot about it when you fought those men, so it is not a physical injury. So --Where in the tropics could an English army doctor have got himself injured? Clearly in Afghanistan. Now your brother-- ”

“Wonderful,” John exclaimed, interrupting him. “That is--- simply astounding.” 

Sherlock paused, examining John’s face for any trace of mockery. But there was none. John was being perfectly honest, as far as he could ascertain. John furrowed his brow as Sherlock watched. “About my brother?” he repeated slowly, as if just having noted Sherlock’s last statement. He looked up questioningly. 

“Your pocket watch,” Sherlock said simply. “The scratches where someone attempted to wind it while inebriated—not you, it is perfectly clear that you have not wound it in ages and that it was a gift. And the engraving, of course.”

“Oh.” John became suddenly quieter. “Yes, of course.” 

“Well?” Sherlock asked impatiently. “What did I miss?”

John swallowed. “Nothing at all,” he said, a trifle too hastily. Lying, Sherlock thought, watching the way his eyes darted away. No matter, he would get to the heart of it eventually. 

They were nearly there. The windows of 221b were thankfully dark, Irene no doubt having left for a hunt. She had grown quite enamored with the theatre of late—Sherlock had found a headline just the other day, chronicling the sudden, tragic demises of several members of “The Lord of the Isles”. The theories appeared to range from that of a sudden on-set of contagious illness, to an ancient Egyptian curse, though Sherlock was quite sure he knew the true nature of whatever was ailing the opera house. 

And speaking of Irene--there was a streak of scarlet near the door handle, visible even in the dim moonlight. John’s eyes flicked over it, seeing but not observing, as was no doubt fortunate. 

“You were right,” Sherlock said suddenly, his eyes trained on the little spot. “You were absolutely right.”

“Sorry?” John looked politely confused. “I don’t—“

“This is a horrid choice. You should not have made it.”

But even now, this curious little man seemed entirely unperturbed. “I have made horrid choices before,” he said casually. “And it is possible I will live to make yet worse.”

“And if you do not?” Sherlock said, before he could stop himself. “ If one of your choices truly ends badly--What then, John Watson?”

John merely shrugged, as if the idea of forfeiting his life caused him little concern. “Then it does not matter so much either.” 

………………

Paradoxically, John’s admission made Sherlock want to keep him alive for longer. In truth, the reason Sherlock had refused to approach him for so long was simple--he had been terrified that the reality of John would not do justice to the fascination Sherlock had for him. But he had been blessedly wrong. John Watson was proving far more intriguing than he could have imagined.

“I should clean,” Sherlock said inanely, as he led John into the cluttered living room. He had just caught sight of a bloodstained bodice peeping out from under the velvet armchair. He kicked it viciously under. 

“You live with someone?” John asked, having apparently taken in the lace, if not the crimson lashings across it. 

“It’s not important,” Sherlock snapped. He took a deep breath. “I mean that—perhaps—this is not whatever you happen to be thinking.” He spotted a half-empty bottle of some dark liquid and hoped fervently that it was what he thought it was. “Wine maybe?”

John snorted. “If you have indeed been following me, then I think you are aware that I have every ability to drink myself into an early grave without your help.” He stooped to examine the bodice before Sherlock could stop him, frowning in the darkness at the odd splattering across the front. Sherlock swept forwards and caught him up by the shoulders in a desperate bid to distract him. 

“Aren’t you curious?”

John looked up briefly. “About what?”

“About why I was following you,” Sherlock answered glibly. Idiotic though the distraction was, it appeared to work, for John looked up and smiled faintly at him. 

“ I've done a little of my own research since the last time I saw you. They do say some very odd things about you, Mister Holmes.”

“Oh?” Sherlock inhaled sharply and drew himself to his full height. “And what is it that they say?”

John shrugged, as if he could hardly be bothered. But his eyes darted nervously away, belying his casual tone. “They say that you help the police on occasion—that you stylize yourself as an amateur detective of sorts.”

“Consulting,” Sherlock snapped automatically. 

“Right, of course.“

“What else do they say?”

John hesitated and Sherlock shook him roughly, his hands still fisted into the worn material of John’s coat. “Go on.” 

John licked his lips. “Nothing good,” he admitted reluctantly.

“Tell me,” Sherlock demanded.

John squared his shoulders and looked up, locking his gaze with Sherlock’s. “They say you're mad. Brilliant, but mad. They say that you rarely venture forth, but that wherever you go, misfortune surely follows. They say —“

John flushed a dark red. “That you live in sin with your own unmarried sister,” he continued quickly, the words tumbling out. “And that you—you take pleasure in the most gruesome of crimes and the most sordid of company.”

“I see,” Sherlock said. He drew John closer on a whim, his arms locking firmly around the doctor's waist. He was so very delicate and warm, this man, and the beat from his rapidly pulsing heart pounded delectably against Sherlock's chest. “And what do you say, Dr. Watson?”

“I say that you’re amazing—brilliant. As for the rest—“ he shrugged, blue eyes rueful. “I have no way of knowing, do I?” 

Sherlock leaned forwards so that his lips brushed the shell of John’s ear. “And if I said it was true—all of it, in it’s own way?”

John swallowed roughly. “I trust you. I don’t quite understand why, mind you, but I do.” He said the last part almost defiantly, as if daring Sherlock to contradict him. 

“You’re lying,” Sherlock said brusquely, drawing slightly back. “I asked you what I had gotten wrong—you did not see fit to enlighten me. You followed me home, but even now you are tense—You do not trust me, John. You have merely ceased to care about your own safety altogether. The question is—why?” 

John caught his hand in Sherlock’s hair and pulled him down roughly in lieu of a response. 

“You think entirely more than can be good for you,” he remarked lightly. Without warning, he reached up and pressed their lips together in a bruising kiss, rendering Sherlock, for once, entirely speechless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much thanks to Callie-Ariane for providing me with the transcript of 'A Study in Pink'. http://callie-ariane.tumblr.com/post/39954634664/sherlock-transcript-pilot-episode-a-study-in-pink


	5. 23rd-24rth February, 1888

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A good bit of slashy, dub-con vampire sex. And Irene being Irene, which is never good either.

John’s lips were rough and thin, his grip far too aggressive to be comfortable. His tongue pushed insistently at Sherlock’s mouth, demanding access, overwhelming in its need. Sherlock caressed his arms, pulling off the threadbare coat, before dropping his hands to John’s wrists so that he could propel him backwards into the bedroom. Irene’s bedroom, of course, for no other room in the house had a bed, not even for appearance’s sake. Sherlock disdained such human trappings, preferring to keep his coffin hidden neatly in the closet. But Irene was too conceited to believe that either sunlight or mortals could do her any lasting damage and too enamored of drama and human accouterments to forgo silk sheets for her mahogany coffin every night. 

Sherlock grappled with the heavy, unwieldy drapes, their thick velvet specially commissioned not to let in one drop of light. John took advantage of his distraction-- he slipped his arms under Sherlock's emerald jacket. One hand rested on Sherlock’s back, while the other dropped a little too low on the curve of his spine, familiarly palming the slope of his buttocks. It stroked down yet lower, and Sherlock gasped a little when John toyed with the material of his trousers, his fingers now shamelessly running down the dip between Sherlock's cheeks. Sherlock barely managed to find the slit in the drapery and yank it open. He unceremoniously pushed at John, who sat with a soft thump and slid back, allowing Sherlock to kneel gracefully before him and, finally, examine his debauched prey. He stroked the creases in John's brow with curious fingers, felt the muscles in the broad shoulders and the slightest dip of fat about the abdomen. He palmed the bulge in John's trousers and was pleased to hear the muffled curse that resulted. 

He looked up. John’s mouth was wet and swollen with kisses, his clothing disheveled. He smiled softly and reached for his lover, just as Sherlock let go of his hold on the black curtain. It slid neatly into place, enclosing them in pure darkness. Sherlock’s eyes adjusted automatically—but John looked a little bewildered now, his eyes blinking rapidly as he blindly turned his head. He reached out again and Sherlock caught up his hands, pressing them gently to his chest.

“Holmes—“

“Sherlock. Please—call me Sherlock. Surely we can dispense with the formalities, considering—“ he indicated the bed with a nod of his head, a gesture no doubt utterly lost on John at the moment. 

John began to smile again, the slightly sardonic, self-deprecating grin that Sherlock had become extremely familiar with over the past few weeks. “Considering that we have already engaged in several highly illicit acts, Sherlock it is.”

Sherlock impulsively kissed his knuckles, his plush mouth open against the rough skin. “You seem oddly comfortable with that fact,” he mused. John’s face shuttered closed instantly. 

“The Guardsmen,” he offered finally, drawing himself back. “It’s common for soldiers to make a bit of pay on the side, surely you know that, considering—well. Considering.”

“I do not make a habit of this, John,” Sherlock told him carefully. And you are still lying, he thought, but did not say. John was clearly not about to tell him the truth and Sherlock reached out mentally instead, prodding carefully at the turmoil of thoughts he sensed beneath that calm exterior as his curiosity finally got the better of him. 

“Damn,” he said. “There’s always SOMETHING.”

“Sorry?” John asked, too quickly. “I don’t know—“

“Never mind,” Sherlock said, sharply cutting him off. “Never—“ He crawled forwards and pressed a hand to John’s shoulder, pushing him back against the absurdly thick pillows, and covered his mouth with his own. His other hand tore through the clothing, efficiently divesting John of his many layers. John, meanwhile, had finally succeeded in tugging Sherlock’s own shirt out of his waistband. His mouth fell open as he slipped a blunt-fingered hand up Sherlock’s bare chest, and Sherlock could feel the soft, wondering laughter against his lips.

“Your skin—“ John said. He rubbed soothingly up the flat planes, as if he could warm it with his gentle touch. A fantasy, like one of the many Sherlock had thought of, but in those daydreams, the sex was languid and slightly repetitive, as was everything else about his world. What he had not expected with the reality of John’s flushed skin, the way his prick thickened almost immediately in response to the thundering beat in his ears. He wanted to feed, with a desperation he had not known even during his longest dry spells. 

John canted his hips upwards, rutting against Sherlock’s thigh, and Sherlock tore at his trousers and underclothes, barely pushing them to John’s knees before he began stroking the hot, ready flesh. John arched underneath him, gasping and there, that was too much, the bare skin rubbing against Sherlock’s own. Sherlock nuzzled John’s neck, breathing in the scent of sweat and alcohol, as John reached down to rub his length through the trousers. 

“Please,” Sherlock managed to say, his voice heavy with desire. John nodded (as if he could possibly know what he was acquiescing to) and Sherlock got up to kick off the rest of his clothing. He settled back in over John, covering the smaller body entirely with his own. John’s eyes slipped closed as Sherlock's fingers grasped his throat and tilted back his head, his thumb slipping down to press against the pulsing vein. He dipped his head and licked at the intimate juncture between John’s collarbone and neck and John’s hands came up to tangle in Sherlock’s curls, pressing his face against the warm skin. 

Sherlock groaned, torn between the desire to drink and to possess John completely as he did so. He wanted to take John’s legs over his shoulders and press into that tight heat, to sink his teeth in at the exact moment John came undone underneath him, his eyes dilated with arousal, a flush sweeping across his bare, golden flesh. But the temptation to simply drink proved to be too much. John yelped as he felt the prick of Sherlock’s fangs, thrashing, but Sherlock pinned him down ruthlessly, dizzy with the wonderfully metallic taste of fresh blood. Their hips slid and tilted desperately in search of friction, before coming together in a furious rocking rhythm. 

“Oh bloody hell—What are—What are you doing to me?” John moaned. He whimpered as Sherlock sucked hungrily, but his legs lifted to curl about Sherlock’s waist and his hands still cradled Sherlock’s head, holding it firmly against his neck. Sherlock could feel John’s prick growing impossibly hard against his own and he thrust wildly, lost in the delirium of John’s pounding heart. John shuddered underneath him and Sherlock lifted his head so that he could kiss him instead, devouring every gasp of his climax, the taste of John’s blood still on his lips. 

He barely registered John going still under him, his hands dropping limply to his side. The heartbeat continued, dangerously slow now, and Sherlock clung to John as it overwhelmed him, burying his face into John’s neck once more to lap at the wound so that it closed, the pricks fading into nothing. Then he exhaustedly pressed his blood-slicked lips against John’s frightfully slack ones one last time, before falling, satiated, into the waiting darkness.

……..

“Up,” said a familiar voice, rather crossly. “UP, you beautiful little bastard or else I’ll leave you in the sunlight with the curtains open come dawn.” 

Sherlock opened his eyes blearily to the vision in front of him. Irene’s dark eyes were amused, despite her tone. She wore only a transparent chemise, having no doubt discarded the rest of her clothing carelessly through the flat on her way to bed, as was her wont. A beautiful woman, long-limbed and fair, was cradled gently in her arms, blood splattering the front of her rent clothing. 

John stirred briefly in Sherlock’s arms at the interruption. They were still obscenely tangled together amid the sheets, a fact which Irene was just now taking in, as her eyes compensated for the dim candlelight. 

“Oh, how delicious,” she purred as she perched delicately on the edge of the bed and arranged the night’s victim fussily at their feet. “The great Sherlock Holmes isn’t above a little sex, apparently, if the prize is pretty enough.” She reached over and ran a pale hand across John’s thigh, her sharp eyes taking in the haggard lines of his face. Sherlock snarled at her, tightening his arms possessively about his doctor. 

“Oh that’s rich,” she said mockingly, drawing back. “Not only have you made a mess of MY bed, dearest, you also seem to have left your lovely lover breathing—can’t you do anything properly?” She leaned over once more, her breasts dragging across the other woman’s bare chest as she reached for John. But Sherlock sat up and grabbed her wrist before she could so much as lay a finger on him, the tightness of his grip causing her to hiss in displeasure. 

“No,” he bit off. “That is not yours to touch.” John stirred once more in his sleep and they both looked over. “Leave him,” Sherlock warned again. Irene’s eyes darkened with rage. 

“And what will you do with him?” she asked tightly. “A little snack for later, is it? Or, no-- I see—a pet. You like him, is that so?” She smiled coldly, standing up and straightening her shift. “Humans don’t last very long, Sherlock,” she said brutally. “Or have you forgotten that as well?” 

Sherlock opened his mouth, something incisive and cruel on the tip of his tongue, but at that moment John groaned, drawing their attention back to him. “He is nice,” Irene admitted grudgingly. “A very strong heart—I can feel it from here.” 

John’s eyes flew open. 

“Where—“ he staggered up and Sherlock was onto him in a moment, instinctively shielding him from Irene’s appreciative gaze. She rolled her eyes theatrically. 

“I have no interest in your petty prey,” she said dismissively. But her hand hovered over John’s figure, tactically asking permission. Sherlock glared, but didn’t stop her this time, as she pressed her palm to John’s chest, feeling the subtle pounding. John stared at her, taking in the small, pointed breasts with their dark nipples, the long, pale column of her neck. Irene was strikingly lovely in the flickering light, albeit in her own, cutting way, with thin, scarlet lips and curling black hair that she wore loose about her sharp shoulders. 

“She dyes it,” Sherlock said petulantly, as he caught where John’s gaze was going. Irene shot him a quelling look. 

“Hello, darling,” she crooned to John, as if he was a stray puppy that had wandered into their midst. “I think you just might live.”

“Live—“ John repeated slowly. He still looked completely dazed as he grabbed at his shirt and trousers and attempted to clamber to his feet. Sherlock caught him as he stumbled, bringing him close, but John shook him off stubbornly. “What did you DO?” he asked, his voice sharp. He braced himself on a bedpost, fumbling into what was left of his clothing. 

And then gasped as he caught sight of the blonde woman, her sightless eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“No—god, no,” he stammered, his eyes wide with horror. Sherlock waited for him to turn tail and run, but John, his lovely, perfect John, dropped to his knees instead, feeling her wrist for a pulse. “She’s still alive,” he said with some relief. He turned to Irene and Sherlock. “We have to do something—“

His voice trailed off as he took in the blood on Irene’s dress. His left hand went hesitatingly to his neck, as if he’d just remembered his own wound. It was gone, of course, but the blood remained, dried and congealed at his neck. His eyes sought Sherlock’s, as if looking for reassurance. 

Sherlock turned away. “Leave,” he told him coldly. “I warned you before, but this is the last time I will tell you—as you value your life, leave.” 

“Sherlock—“ It was Irene who said it, her face registering concern for the first time that evening. “You can’t just—our position will be compromised if he’s allowed to go.” 

“Oh? And who will believe him?” he asked, his mouth curling in a bitter smile. “You are not gone yet, John,” he said, whirling on him. “Why is that? Does it please you to look upon the likes of us, the eternally damned? Or perhaps you have not yet realized the true extent of our powers—“ 

John’s horrified expression melted as he squared his shoulders and looked Sherlock determinedly in the eye. "You murdered her,” he said, teeth clenched. “You murdered that girl—“ 

Irene coughed lightly. “Actually, dearest, that was me.” She smiled beatifically, her fangs slipping elegantly out from their sheaths. “And if you believe,” she continued softly, “That I will let you leave here alive, you are sadly mistaken.” 

“NO,” Sherlock roared at her, as John took a step backwards, his eyes fixed on her glinting teeth. “I told you—“

“Demons,” John interrupted, his voice choked. “You are—“ 

“Vampires,” Irene corrected with a bored drawl. She slunk forwards. “And you smell quite delicious." 

Sherlock snarled again and threw an arm in front of John. “Leave,” he commanded, turning. “John—“ he grasped him by the shoulders and brought their faces close. “You said you trusted me, last night. Were you lying?”

John froze. “I didn’t—“

“Answer me, John!” He could see the emotions warring across John’s face, the anguish and loathing. But then too, he had saved John’s life twice and John would not forget that so easily. 

“Yes,” John said finally, after an eternity. “Yes.”

Sherlock stepped back and caught up Irene by the waist as she attempted to stalk forwards. “Then leave,” he hissed back at John. “Leave and do not speak of the horrors you saw here or this night. Leave and forget and never come back, John, please.”

“Fine,” John spat, pulling himself together faster than Sherlock would have believed possible. He backed up and, in one fluid motion, picked up the blonde woman on the bed, staggering slightly under her weight. “But I will not leave without her, “ he said pointedly. He turned and stumbled towards the door with her in his arms, never even sparing a look back to see if they were following him.

Irene groaned as the door slammed shut behind them. “That was my fucking _dinner _,” she whined. Sherlock slackened his grip and she whirled on him, crossing her arms petulantly across her chest as she took in his still-naked form.__

“I suppose the naked wrestling almost makes up for it,” she snapped irately. “But really Sherlock—You just would have to pick the one with the goddamned hero complex.”


	6. 28th March, 1888

“You have gotten fatter. Is that even possible when one is a corpse?” Sherlock remarked upon entering their sitting room. The man sitting pompously in his armchair raised one complacent eyebrow. 

“Eternity has not made you any more charming, baby brother.”

“Nor you any less insufferable,” Sherlock returned, slouching disdainfully into Irene’s armchair instead. She had insisted upon some plush velvet atrocity that currently dominated the majority of their living room with it’s eye-watering splendor. Mycroft gazed at it with no small amount of trepidation. 

“Charming,” he noted dryly. 

Sherlock ignored him and reached for his pipe, tucking his feet comfortably underneath him as he did so. “There is a reason you have troubled yourself to visit me, I presume? It must be quite important, after all, considering you’ve decided to take on the stress of moving yourself more than five feet.” 

Mycroft steepled his fingers under his chin, his eyes narrowing. 

“I have received news of your and your—paramour’s—many exploits. I need hardly remind you that drawing attention to yourself in such a manner is incredibly irresponsible of you.” 

Sherlock had been lazily stuffing his pipe from a Persian slipper while Mycroft spoke and pointedly not offering any to his brother. Now he slammed down the silken shoe, his face outraged. “The doctor talked then? I might have known... One piece of intriguing gossip and they all turn into busybody old crones at a tea party.“

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “Doctor?” he asked slowly. “What doctor is this?”

Sherlock froze and turned his piercing gaze on his brother. “Never mind,” he said hastily, taking in Mycroft’s utterly bemused expression. He folded himself back into his seat in graceful retreat. “Do continue, it promises to be absolutely riveting.” 

But Mycroft was not so easily dissuaded. “Of course,” he said. “The doctor you were following a month ago. A tedious waste of time, clearly, but I presumed if it amused you, there was little harm in it. But something has gone quite wrong, hasn’t it?”

“It is absolutely none of your business,” Sherlock told the ceiling. He chewed aggressively on the stem of his pipe. Mycroft eyed it disapprovingly. “Dirty human habit,“ he murmured fastidiously. “But yes, this doctor—it’s clear that you’ve grown far more enamored of him than I expected.”

“Bugger off, you obsequious bastard,” Sherlock returned languidly. Mycroft’s ability to delve into the lesser minds around him was only growing better with age and he had no qualms about using it, a fact which annoyed Sherlock to distraction. 

“But this is dangerous, Sherlock,” Mycroft said sharply. “This sort of passion for a mere human---and what does the little whore-child have to say about this? I trust she has at least a modicum of sense—“ 

“She is neither my paramour nor anyone’s whore, Mycroft,” Sherlock snapped, rejoining the only part of the statement he trusted himself to answer. 

“That is hardly the point here.“

“The point is that John Watson has left,” Sherlock told him shortly. “And he will not be coming back. Nor talking about his experiences. You have my word, for all that that means to you.” 

Mycroft pressed his lips together, clearly still dissatisfied. “Very well then,” was all he said. “But there is still the matter of these exploits—“

“What exploits?” Sherlock asked blankly. “There have been no exploits of late—I have hardly ventured forth from the house.”

“So I see,” Mycroft said, taking in Sherlock’s gaunt frame, with it’s heavy, obvious veins. “Clearly your—Irene—is rubbish at taking care of you.”

“Not the point, I thought you said?” 

“The systematic theatre murders,” Mycroft retorted. “The dismembered prostitutes on the streets—the galavanting across town with the police, your psychic powers on full display. It must stop. All of it. Or else this city will soon be rendered inhabitable for us as well. You do remember Paris?“

“Yes, of course I remember Paris,” Sherlock spat. “You would hardly let me forget it. But as for the first accusation, you will have to take it up with Irene.“

“Ah yes, the paramour.“

“Shut up. For the second, there was only one prostitute.“

“Two.“

“One!” Sherlock snapped. “And she was hardly ‘dismembered’ as you put it. Do learn to observe. And as for the last---I need the distraction or else I will go mad. And I do not use my powers. It is hardly necessary with the trifles they bring me.” 

“You appear to,” Mycroft interrupted. “And while you might pull off the same feats while human, it draws attention, Sherlock. Your little games cause talk—“

“I cannot help it if the mindless masses have nothing better to do.”

Mycroft rose, his eyes cold. “I will give you one last chance, Sherlock. Get your affairs in order—or I shall be forced to do it for you. And take care of yourself—you look like death and I do not mean that as a compliment”

Sherlock strode to the door and flung it open, gesturing pointedly towards the staircase with his pipe. “Goodbye, Mycroft. Have a nice night and do try to get home soon—it would be an absolute pity if you could not walk fast enough to make it from your carriage to your house in the four hours before dawn, would it not?” 

But Irene chose that exact moment to sweep in, with all her usual sense of impeccably bad timing. Sherlock half-suspected that she simply lurked in the shadows until an opportunity for a suitably dramatic entrance presented itself, though he had never been able to prove it. 

“Hello, Gentleman Ice,” she trilled, clasping her hands together in mock delight. “How is being the right hand to our illustrious monarch treating you?”

Mycroft stiffened. “I am sure I do not know what you mean.”

Irene immediately began unlacing her stays. “These things are dreadfully hard to breathe in,” she explained, wholly unperturbed by his scandalized expression. She threw the entire dress at Sherlock, who scowled as he dropped it to the floor and kicked it under the chair. 

“I am not your handmaiden.“

“Oh, did I tell you, Mycroft?” Irene asked, her eyes still fixed on Sherlock. There was an undeniably wicked lilt to her voice that Sherlock heartily disliked. “It seems our little virgin is growing up—“

Mycroft’s eyes widened. He turned back to Sherlock, his umbrella swinging forwards to point at his brother’s face. Sherlock swatted at the tip of it, incensed. “Surely my sex life is none of your business.“

“It is if you happen to be carrying on with a human, brother—even you could not have resisted the temptation to feed in that situation and considering that the doctor is, by all accounts, still alive—“

“No,” Sherlock lashed out. He rose threateningly to his feet, his slender frame shaking with rage. “You will not touch him.”

Mycroft straightened his back, somehow towering over his brother despite their similar heights. “As I said---either you deal with this, brother—or I will.” And with that, he turned smartly on his heel, bowing brusquely to Irene on his way out of the door. 

“Give my regards to dear old Vicky,” Irene called churlishly after him. “Though I hear the old gal’s getting quite fat.“ 

She turned to Sherlock, her face suddenly sober as she took in his wrecked expression and gaunt form. “And now,” she asked him softly. “What on Earth are we going to do?”

………..  
“Was it really necessary to bring up my sex life?”

“Nothing else would have distracted him from that dress,” Irene said pointedly. She pushed him, without warning, into the closest chair and Sherlock stumbled backwards far too easily, his knees buckling under him. “When was the last time you ate?” Irene queried sharply. “Sherlock? Answer me.”

Sherlock could not have told her the answer—he had spent the majority of the past few weeks asleep in his coffin. He was convinced that the entire weary tedium of the world had finally caught up to him, draining him of the will to continue. “It does not matter.”

“No, because you are sulking, like a child not yet seven years old,” Irene spat. But there was an unmistakable tremor of fear to her voice. She swung herself into his lap, straddling his thighs in the too-confined space of the armchair. “Sherlock—listen to me. Are you listening?”

Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned his head against the back of the chair. “Clearly,” he drawled. 

She ran her fingers up to his cheeks, pressing his face between her small hands so that he was forced to look into the narrowed darkness of her eyes. “Then stop your sulking--There is no reason to, not when there is so much here, to see and to do. Look—“ She gestured to the vaulted window, at the moon-lit sky outside. “There—This is London. Murderers stalk the streets, gruesome crimes under every doorway—the great cesspool, you used to say, do you remember? And you loved them, you loved it...“

“There has not been a proper crime in decades,” Sherlock said petulantly. “Little cases, surely, but a truly great criminal—I have not seen the like.” He knew, instinctively, that he was merely talking to fill a void, that none of what he said was at the heart of why he’d given up so utterly. But Irene knew him better than that. After centuries of their arrangement, it was growing harder and harder to fool her. 

“Then we’ll go somewhere else,” she said now, as close to desperation as Irene Adler ever got. “Vienna, Milan—Bohemia was nice, I was there once.“ 

“And what when we have exhausted those?” Sherlock demanded. “What when we have roamed the globe in search of adventure and found nothing new under the sun? Will you let me rest then? Or will you continue to drag my shriveled corpse across the seven continents?” 

“You are merely being selfish and dramatic,” she snarled. She slid her arms down to lock them about his neck instead, her pale limbs putting an unwelcome pressure on his throat. 

“I know what this is about,“ she continued shrewdly. “Don’t think that I don’t. It’s about that doctor of yours. Does he refuse to see you then?”

“I do not know,” Sherlock admitted. “I have not—contacted him. I presumed he would have no desire to see me and I have no desire to see someone who dislikes me as he no doubt does.” 

“I did not know you were a coward, as well as a child,” Irene commented. “But I see now that I was entirely mistaken. You’re careless Sherlock—Mycroft is right. Have the balls to finish what you start, one way or another, or you put us all in danger. 

Sherlock raised his eyebrow. “I’m the careless one, am I? And what of your dress? I saw the bloodstains you wanted to hide from him, the smell of sex and alcohol on the material. You killed a prostitute tonight and left the body. One of how many, Irene?” 

“My first,” Irene snapped. “And I thralled her so that she was left with the impression that it was someone else entirely. I am cautious, Sherlock, when I need to be. ” 

She wrenched off her pearl bracelet as she spoke and the luminescent globes slid off, landing on the floor with a clatter. Irene paid them no heed. 

“The last one,” she said, rubbing her wrist, “—she doesn’t count, considering that your little friend felt the need to intervene. And I had good reason. I needed the extra blood, thanks to your absolute refusal to fend for yourself.” 

She lifted the now bare wrist to Sherlock’s face. “Here. Bite.”

Sherlock recoiled from the proffered limb, but there was nowhere for him to go. “Not again—I—“

“Oh, now you’re squeamish? After all those times you came home and collapsed on the bed and I had to drip blood into your slack mouth--- now you don’t want to bite? Go on. If you’re good, maybe I’ll even tell you how it compares to the snake.”

Sherlock shook his head. He could not have said why the physical biting of Irene’s wrist felt different from those times—was different. Irene smearing blood across his mouth from her latest victim was her own choice. If she had chosen not to keep him alive, he would not have cared either. But to actually sink his teeth into her skin—

“Since last month,” she noted. “You have not attempted to drink fresh human blood since February—tell me, does the taste truly linger that long? If it’s that delectable, I might have to hunt down your doctor myself and take a bite.“

“You wouldn’t dare,” Sherlock flared. 

“I most certainly would dare, as you well know," Irene replied tartly. "Drink, Sherlock. And then you can go find him and stop this awful farce of living.“

“A bit ironic, that statement,” Sherlock couldn’t resist commenting. Irene stroked her thumb over the side of his mouth instead of answering, pressing until his lips opened and she could hold her wrist gently to them. 

“Shh...Drink, now,” she whispered. 

Sherlock closed his eyes and obeyed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> starting in on the case fic part of it-- if you've been paying attention to the dates, you probably already have an idea of what's going on. virtual candy to the first person who figures out what historical event is in progress or just, you know, keep reading!
> 
> Lots of love to those who commented, by the way, you make my day.


	7. 3rd April, 1888

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay and thank you all so much for your continued encouragement and commenting! I'm incredibly busy at the moment, but I'm going to try and keep updating to at least once a week from now. Also sorry for the continued absence of a certain army doctor-- next chapter, I promise.
> 
> And to everyone who figured it out-- yes, the Leather Apron is indeed on the prowl...

Sherlock was, to be perfectly honest, obsessed. He’d been pondering the curve of John Watson’s neck for days now, fixated upon the remembrance of the fluttering vein, the thick, rich blood flowing through his heart. That was the danger, of course—for he was fascinated, infatuated even, by the man. He wanted to possess him utterly, to take him until his heart stopped pounding and the last drop was sucked out of his veins. He’d fall into a temporary delirium then, having poisoned himself with dead blood—but he’d know John Watson as no one had ever known him, have had an intimacy with the man that no woman he’d ever taken could have dreamed of. The vampire part of him plotted with a jealous focus, intent upon its desire. 

But the remnants of his rationality were not entirely convinced by the plan. The fact that he was a monster, he had long since embraced. That he even now planning to brutally murder an innocent—well, less than the height of morality,, but, surely, only to be expected. But to accept hat he was infatuated with John Watson—with anyone, really— now that, THAT was terrifying. 

There was a pounding at the door and Sherlock leaped out of the chair in which he’d been lounging, grateful for the distraction. He’d been infuriatingly weak for the past few days, still recovering from the extended lack of blood, and his mind had hardly deviated from its never-ending loop. It was little help that Irene had, much to his displeasure, confined him to the flat. She went out only to hunt for them and returned quickly, slamming shut the door as if wood and padlocks could even begin to hold him. But she needn’t have worried--- Sherlock didn’t trust himself to so much as venture out of the doorway. 

Now, she gazed warily out the window—on the horizon, the first pricks of dawn were staining the sky cobalt. But Sherlock could smell the sweat and urgency on the man at the door. He felt keenly the befuddlement and yes, horror, there, and it was far more intoxicating than any blood could possibly be. 

“Lestrade,” he said without preamble, flinging open the door to reveal the handsome, if weathered, D.I. “Why did you not bring me in earlier?” 

Lestrade sighed wearily and massaged his forehead, having long since become enured to Sherlock’s antics. 

“I would have,” he said gruffly. “Listen here, Mister Holmes—you cannot simply vanish for four weeks and then expect us to come running with our problems, that is hardly how this arrangement works—“

“I do believe it works however I say it does, “ Sherlock said tartly. “Because you require my services and I offer them freely—now tell me.“

“---and you’re never here, are you? Why I talked to your housekeeper just yesterday and that devil of a woman had the audacity to inform that you were never here during the day and that furthermore, I could be assured that even if you were, you wouldn’t see me—“ Lestrade continued over him, clearly still aggrieved. 

“I have told you before, I have business that requires attending to during the daylight,” Sherlock informed him haughtily.

“I don’t doubt that it does, Mister Holmes,” Lestrade replied, a trifle sardonically. “May I request the honor of your presence now, seeing as it is one of those perfectly ungodly hours that you so favor?”

“Tell me first,” Sherlock ordered, waving him to a seat. Lestrade sat heavily, the apparent strain of the past few days weighing him down as he sank gratefully into the cushioned seat. 

Sherlock perched on the ornate coffee table, until Irene beckoned him over to her armrest instead. He slunk over and sat, allowing her to rest one hand familiarly on his thigh.

The Detective Inspector did not bat an eyelid—he’d long since written both of them off as superbly eccentric. After all, who knew what sort of excesses the wealthy indulged in abroad? Sherlock still kept a purposefully French touch about him and Lestrade had all of a working Englishman’s proper suspicion of the French. So much so that Sherlock sometimes had cause to wonder whether the supernatural explanation wouldn’t have been preferable to the DI. 

But Sherlock Holmes was indispensible to the force, with the keen skills of the vampire coupled with the yet keener wit of his mind. And he knew that Lestrade could not afford to alienate him, for all his quaint little suspicions. 

“Ada Wilson,” was all the man said now, his voice dull with exhaustion. “She was assaulted on Maiden Street a few nights ago—in her own house of all the bloody terrifying places.” 

“And what was unusual?” 

Lestrade shook his head doubtfully. “It was particularly violent, for all she said it was a robbery—“ 

“I repeat, Detective Inspector Lestrade,” Sherlock said, enunciating the syllables coldly. “You would not have come if this was any other petty crime.” 

The police inspector fished about in his pockets and pulled out a blurry photography, thrusting it at Sherlock, who took it eagerly. 

“That attack—,” Lestrade said. “It seemed odd. To me, in any case, though you know well by now that I don’t speak for the majority of the force. There were two open slashes across her neck, very neat, precise job too-- someone knew what they were doing, I'd wager. She claimed someone broke in, demanding money and tried to kill her when she couldn’t find any, but—“

Sherlock kept his eyes trained on the photograph, his eyes widening in shock.

“But, in your experience, petty criminals do not turn into murderers on so little provocation. On the other hand, even allowing for the effects of various substances-- potential murderers whose victims have seen their faces do not generally allow those victims to live, is that so Inspector?”

“That’s precisely it, Mr. Holmes—there’s something a trifle suspicious about that story, wouldn’t you say?”

“It is certainly _one _possibility,” Sherlock murmured dryly. Irene leaned over his shoulder.__

__“But that’s my girl,” she whispered urgently in his ear, in tones too soft for any human to catch. “From the 28th—but her _neck _Sherlock, it’s not—and I wouldn’t—“___ _

____“Indeed,” Sherlock acknowledged. He rubbed his forehead, as Irene insisted upon flooding his mind with images anyway. An invitation for the lovely lady—then flashes of yielding flesh and rich blood—but too much and a mess on the floor and the woman left slumped across her dining table. Then Irene’s voice, confident and intoxicating with suggestion. Someone had broken in— had demanded money and she’d been knocked unconscious. That was all—but a sudden fear of discovery and Irene fleeing and the memory cut down until it was Mycroft’s scent at the door and the realization that her dress was splattered with crimson droplets._ _ _ _

____He turned back to Lestrade, who was waiting patiently. “What did the unfortunate woman say her attacker looked like?” he asked._ _ _ _

____He could feel Irene’s nails digging into his shoulder. But Lestrade had not had a trace of recognition on him since he entered the room and Sherlock doubted even the DI was that thick. It was possible, of course, that the description had been unhelpfully vague, but that would not protect them for long, not with Irene’s reputation._ _ _ _

____“You said she was robbed her at her house and furthermore that she was the one who told you,” Sherlock added, in response to Lestrade’s questioning expression. “—clearly she is still alive and if she did not manage to offer any description of her attacker, I would confess myself shocked.”_ _ _ _

____Lestrade shook his head. “ No, I thought you were implying—as it maybe. It might be nothing, you understand. Whitechapel’s a dangerous district on the best of days. Why just the end of last month, there was that blonde woman--- Anna? Anne?—“_ _ _ _

____“Annie,” Irene interjected. She met Sherlock’s glare with an innocent smile. “I read about it in the papers. The poor dear was quite bloody and slashed when she made it to the hospital—some horrid man apparently just attacked her and left her there.”_ _ _ _

____“How very convenient of him to drop her off to the nearest hospital then,” Sherlock said dryly. “One might almost conclude that he was trying to help.”_ _ _ _

____“It was odd,” Lestrade agreed. “She said very firmly that he attacked her, but then she didn’t remember so much as where or how and we couldn’t find a trace of the rogue—to be frank, I wouldn’t know where to start. And then she dropped dead within the month, god rest her soul—they said it was natural, but I should think the shock would have—“_ _ _ _

____Irene chose that moment to not-so-discreetly pinch Sherlock’s upper arm. He yelped, but she merely tilted her head, indicating the fast-lightening sky._ _ _ _

____“Lestrade you are particularly tortuous today. Does the hour affect you so drastically or are you merely naturally slow?” Sherlock asked hastily._ _ _ _

____“She said he’s short,” Lestrade said finally, ignoring the insult. “Well—medium height say. Said he has a tanned face and a fair mustache--”_ _ _ _

____“You’re sure?” Irene cut in sharply, before Sherlock could respond._ _ _ _

____Lestrade raised an eyebrow. “She seemed quite certain, Lady Adler.”_ _ _ _

____Sherlock rose and beckoned the DI to the door. “There are quite a few men of that description within the confines of London,” he informed him. “I cannot find him.”_ _ _ _

____“People are dying, Mister Holmes,” Lestrade said desperately, as he was ushered to the door. “And I can’t have these murders on my streets, these women—“_ _ _ _

____“Don’t worry yourself. I am entirely sure that it is merely a coincidence—some petty thief who got carried away. I may not be able to find your man but I assure you, I can stop him.”_ _ _ _

____Lestrade didn’t look entirely convinced. “Now see here, if you know something about these, it is your obligation—“_ _ _ _

____“Goodbye, Lestrade,” Sherlock told him pleasantly. He slammed the door in the DI’s unsuspecting face._ _ _ _

____…………….._ _ _ _

____“My suggestion couldn’t have gone so awry,” Irene said from behind him. “I’m far too practiced for such a thing to happen.”_ _ _ _

____“I’m going out,” Sherlock told her flatly, without bothering to turn around. “I have business in the city.”_ _ _ _

____She was before him in a flash, her arms folded across her chest as she blocked the door with her slender body. “You cannot,” she told him firmly. “It's morning and your business can wait until the sunset.”_ _ _ _

____“I am not frightened by the sun—“_ _ _ _

____“But you're weak,” she insisted, refusing to budge. “And you know how you look in the bright light.”_ _ _ _

____She was right, of course. The sun could not destroy them, not after all these years. But they looked far less human in it’s light, for the golden rays accentuated the unnatural pallor of their skin, the translucent filigree of their fingernails. Irene always felt it better not to take the risk, though Sherlock was of the opinion that humans noticed nothing that did not fit into their neat, scientific little world. A narrow view of rationality had, by far, been the most convenient invention of the modern era._ _ _ _

____He said as much now, but Irene took a hold of his arm, her iron grip physically restraining him._ _ _ _

____“I don’t know what happened,” she said again, her eyes darting away as she thought. “Possibly some man came in after I did and decided to take advantage—but oh, you don’t believe me, do you? I can feel it.”_ _ _ _

____“I believe you. You are merely being obtuse,” Sherlock told her._ _ _ _

____“It’s a coincidence Sherlock—it must be. As you said, there are many men of that description.”_ _ _ _

____“I never doubted it.”_ _ _ _

____“I fail to see the issue then,” she told him stubbornly. “Some other man must have come in, it’s a simple robbery case. So a poor woman is hurt—I’m not suspected and never will be, so forget it.”_ _ _ _

____Sherlock felt something, some modicum of restraint, crackle and break inside of him._ _ _ _

____“You don’t think,” he hissed, bending his face down to hers. “You feed on the pathetic and refuse to see the evidence that stares you in the face--stop boring me for a moment and just THINK, Irene— someone, whoever it was, came in that night. They SAW your marks—“_ _ _ _

____“And said nothing,” Irene finished pointedly. “Perhaps they did not notice—or perhaps the enticement of her belongings was enough to buy their silence.”_ _ _ _

____“No,” Sherlock said, half to himself. “The strings on her bodice were loose, that cannot be.”_ _ _ _

____Irene shook her head, clearly not following his train of thought. “So they took advantage instead—it’s hardly a new tale, Sherlock.”_ _ _ _

____He glared at her in frustration. “So they had their way with her body, erased her memory of the incident, save for the details of their face and put her back into her corset? All that, before very precisely cutting through her throat? Brilliantly deduced, I’m sure—“_ _ _ _

____“Perhaps they were interrupted at the last—and trauma would explain the memory gap. Your deductions grow less plausible by the minute, Sherlock,” she shot back. “And besides which—she’s alive, isn’t she? She’s alive--though god only knows how, the woman must be stubborn as a bull—so there’s hardly a case and no harm done.”_ _ _ _

____Sherlock stared at her. “Repeat that.”_ _ _ _

____“What—“_ _ _ _

____“That last sentence. Repeat it. Now.”_ _ _ _

____“I said,” Irene said disdainfully, clearly just for the sake of humoring him. “ ‘She’s alive—so there’s hardly a case against me and no harm done.’ ”_ _ _ _

____“Yes,” Sherlock said softly. “ _Yes _\--- that is it precisely.”___ _ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All murder details are accurate, to the best of my knowledge (well, save for the vampires). Annie Millwood's attack and then sudden death a month later , the short, tanned, blonde man Ada Wilson claimed attacked her, are all part of Scotland Yard's records. Even the mysterious Miss Fae (the prostitute from Ch. 1) is, if nothing else, a possible victim and/or story from the time period.
> 
> I'm serious check it out: http://www.casebook.org/victims/


	8. 4th April, 1888

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *’Bluebottle’ is Victorian Street slang for a policeman. 
> 
> Also, because this wasn’t even explained so well in the Anne Rice novels until later in the series—vampires can read the minds of creatures (or vampires) significantly weaker/younger than them. Of their relative equals, they can pick up strong emotions and general themes, but not specifics. It is also a fairly imprecise science, as many vampires learn to misdirect their thoughts.

Irene, though by far less stubborn, was certainly stronger than Sherlock even at the best of times (and the tail end of days of abstinence could hardly be construed even by the most optimistic as ‘the best of times’.) She dragged Sherlock off to his coffin and climbed in with him, to ensure that he didn’t escape before he slept, or so she claimed.

“You should know that I am disinclined to amorous congress with you,” Sherlock told her stiffly, as she lowered herself in. 

“You are always disinclined to ‘amorous congress’, as you say. Though you might as well call it sex—you would think you were born in this era, for all your prudery,” she answered rudely. Her stone weight, so different from John’s soft warmth, settled over him and the lid clanged shut, leaving them trapped in darkness. 

“Tell me,” she purred, easily sensing the turn his thoughts had taken. “Would you rather the doctor slept with you?”

“I would rather I slept alone,” he returned pointedly, banishing all thoughts of John from his mind. 

“But I don’t trust you darling,” she said, brushing her mouth briefly against his. She curled up with her head laid soundly on his chest and Sherlock reluctantly slipped his arms about her slight waist.

“It is curious,” he mused indifferently. “ But I would say the exact same of you.” 

Irene’s lips twisted into a sardonic smile. 

“I should be entirely disappointed if you did.”  
……………………….

Sherlock awoke, unsurprisingly, to an empty coffin. He flung off the lid, groaning at the molten burn of thirst in his throat. He could go days, of course, but it had been days, had it not? Perhaps. Time, always unremarkable before death, had become increasingly less relevant after. 

His eyes fell on Irene, standing as still as a statue in the doorway, her gaze fixed on nothing in particular. After a minute (or 30), it dropped, inhumanly slowly, to him. 

“Feel it?” she asked finally. 

He forgot about his thirst in an instant, his mind reaching desperately for the images she sent it--- but to no avail.

“There’s nothing,” he told her. “Absolutely nothing.”

She shook her head as if to clear it, her moonlit curls tumbling about her in a shimmering rain. 

“Well, run along and find the doctor,” she told him, some of her habitually condescending coquettishness returning in an instant. “It’s about him isn’t it?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Perhaps,” he said languidly, having not quite forgiven her for preventing his exit last night. “Perhaps not.”

“Riddles and riddles upon riddles,” she said enigmatically. “Convoluted and unanswerable, Sherlock, but the only real riddle, my darling, is this—how is it that one little human has you so terrified?”  
……………….. 

“I’m under no obligation to talk about my clients,” Smith said disagreeably, when Sherlock swept dramatically through the door, his skin glowing even in the dim gaslight. Sherlock sighed. He rather wondered, at such times, whether he ought not to invest in a dramatic black cape of sorts. Mycroft would murder him, of course, but the effect would no doubt produce far quicker results. For the moment, however, he settled for waving a few coins in front of Smith’s beady little eyes. 

“I suppose I’ll just leave then, as you have not seen the man,” Sherlock said silkily. “Unless of course, you would just happen to remember—“

Smith placed a dirty hand face up on the counter. “He’ll be here tonight, like as not,” he muttered grudgingly. “Whenever every other pub has kicked him out, for my place is open the latest.”

“What do you mean?” Sherlock asked sharply. 

Smith greedily pocketed the coins before speaking again. “The doctor stays out a good bit, these nights. Seems ta me he wants to drink himself into an early grave more than ever—but it’s no’ my place, Mister Holmes. There’s business and I ‘ave to run this, so long as he pays—“

“And as long as you can take a little off the top, is it?” Sherlock said, gritting his teeth in fury. “Tell me, Smith—how many men like him have you run bankrupt?”

Smith shrugged. “It don’ matter wha’ I do, Mister Holmes-- Them lot is like to die by themselves far before the lack of money gets to ‘em. London is dangerous, sir—I wouldn’ wan’ to be wandering these streets at nigh’ by myself either, let alone with a few drinks in me.” 

“Explain yourself, or I’ll have Scotland Yard take a proper look through that ledger of yours.”

“Well, they wouldn’ find much,” Smith said with a satisfied grin. “Bu’ I’ll tell you— tha’ harlot killed las’ nigh’—wouldn’ wan’ to go how she did.”

Sherlock paused, the memory of Irene’s bloody dress flashing uncomfortably through his thoughts. “Go on. Quickly, I don’t have all night.” 

Smith crooked his finger and Sherlock tossed another coin at him. Smith was a bad egg, certainly, but he was the most accurate of Sherlock’s informants. Now, he caught the money smoothly and pocketed it. 

“Beaten and raped near the church,” he said complacently. “Bleedin’ something awful, she was and said it was a group of ‘em boys that wander about at night. ‘Course, she almost had it coming to her, bein’ a dirty tart and all, but that’s the third one in as many months--” 

“Third? You’re quite certain?” Sherlock asked sharply. “I had thought—“ 

“Ms. Millwood, Ms. Wilson and Ms. Smith,” Smith said with certainty. “No relation, if you was asking--“

“I was _not _,” Sherlock said crisply. “Though I have no doubt that you are the type of scoundrel that would have little problem making a penny off of his dead sister. And you’re an inaccurate scoundrel as well—I heard from my sources there were four.” He hadn’t, of course, but he had no other way of confirming whether or not Irene had done a thorough job of cleaning up his ‘mess’ as she had so delicately put it all those months ago. All it would take was one—one little sighting, one little slip and they would have to flee London for a century.__

__“Wait jus’ a minute—there was tha’ story—about the Faerie of Commercial? Or was it Covenant?”_ _

__Sherlock kept his expression purposefully blank. “I do not pay you to be inaccurate, Smith.“_ _

__“It’s not facts,” said the small man indignantly. “It’s jus’ a story—even the police never went after it. I don’ think she ever existed, is wha’. People jus’ talk Mister Holmes, they talk and they don’ mean anything but nastiness by it. They didn’ find nothing, but the women were scared something awful.”_ _

__“There is a saying about smoke and fire,” Sherlock murmured._ _

__“The bluebottles will tell you, if you don’ believe me. I heard that even they said it was nothing more-- I dunno wha’ you’re going on abou’-- “_ _

__“And no doubt that is for the best, Smith,” Sherlock said smoothly unfolding himself from his seat. “I do believe I have business elsewhere.”_ _

__“Oy,” Smith yelled after him. “Weren’ you going to wait for the doctor?”_ _

__“Later,” Sherlock told him without pausing in his stride. “Tell him—No, don’t tell him anything. I am sure we will cross paths before the evening is through.”_ _

__………………….._ _

__The ability to sense the presence of the supernatural was a distinct power, one that was gifted to nearly every vampire. It enabled them to sense when one of their own was close by and--vampires being the solitary creatures that they were,—to avoid them._ _

__Sherlock in particular disliked the vast majority of his kind as much as he did humans, preferring always to remain within the isolation of his own mind—to that end, he’d invested the better part of his first decade devising a complicated shielding system. Of course, it shielded both ways, but the decrease in security meant little to him, if the payoff was greater privacy of thought._ _

__And even so, he was not utterly free—there were a few connections that refused to do much more than blur themselves. Irene for one. And, much to his general dismay, his brother._ _

__But for the moment, he was grateful. For it made tracking the pompous git just that much easier. The cathedral, when he finally found it, was mammoth and ruined and ivy snaked out insidiously from between the crumbling bricks. Bathed in moonlight, it was the perfect haunt for the beginning of a gothic novella. And it was a far cry from Mycroft’s usual prim, pristine chambers._ _

__Sherlock knew precisely what he would find inside. He had known the instant Smith had claimed that the woman Fay had never existed. For there were very few people in Britain who could wipe all evidence of a murder with the snap of their fingers and there was only one who cared enough about the fate of Sherlock Holmes to interfere in this particular one. No, his brother was meddling and his meddling would no doubt lead him, eventually, in one very specific direction._ _

__Sure enough, there was a familiar thrumming in the air, the sound of a heart he had known intimately and treasured. And then there was the brutally sharp, powerful mind of his brother. He dared not prod too far at that, least Mycroft sense his presence. It was easy to cloud the connection for a little while, if he concentrated, to seal his thoughts behind darkly shimmering space._ _

__He slipped into the alcove of an arched window and settled in. He could hear perfectly even without the connection, though all he could see were two figures—Mycroft near the altar, facing outward onto the pews, and John before him, standing solidly with his feet apart, his back to Sherlock._ _

__Mycroft, of course, was being insufferably pompous. And judging by John’s evident restlessness, he’d possibly been monologuing for quite sometime._ _

__“We are descended from the House of Bourbon,” Mycroft said silkily. “And our ancestors extend from the beginning of the Roman empire.”_ _

__He narrowed his eyes when John did not appear suitably impressed “It a branch of the oldest of the French royal houses—surely you have heard of the House of Capet?” His tone clearly indicated that if John had NOT heard of this particular branch of foreign nobility, then John was, in all likelihood, the greatest idiot he had ever met. Luckily, John was not entirely ignorant of European history, though whether or not he cared was still up for contention._ _

__“I thought the Bonapartes were the Emperors of France,” he said blandly. “Perhaps I was mistaken.”_ _

__There was dead silence. Sherlock stifled an exultant shout of laughter, nearly toppling out of his perch in glee. Why, John was _toying _with Mycroft, a fact which the pompous bastard had no doubt picked up on, judging by the coldness of his expression.___ _

____“The Bonapartes,” Mycroft said, in a voice like splintered glass. “Are notorious upstarts with no respect for the proper tradition of agnatic primogeniture.”_ _ _ _

____“Ag—what now? Well. I hardly doubt it, my good man. Not if you say so.”_ _ _ _

____What Mycroft would not tell him, of course, was that the Holmes were descended from royalty only on mummy’s side. Their father, from the vague memories that Sherlock had of him, was a dim and rather insufferable man who had served in the Royal Army. He had run away with another woman when he had found out the true nature of his wife (and really, he could hardly be blamed for all that.)_ _ _ _

____“I tell you this, John,” Mycroft continued, “Not to boast about our impeccable lineage—“ Sherlock restrained a snort—“But so that you know what you are involving yourself in. There has always been a Bourbon on the throne of France—and there always will be. Do you know why?”_ _ _ _

____John didn’t, of course. Sherlock tensed as he waited. He wanted to shout at Mycroft to stop, to tell him that all of this traditional nonsense was neither applicable nor necessary. John appeared to share his sentiments._ _ _ _

____“You do realize they make us read histories in school, don’t you? I do not particularly need you to educate me on the subject.”_ _ _ _

____“They tell you histories of a sort,” Mycroft agreed smoothly. “But they can only teach what they know and they know very little. Our particular strain is—unusual to say the least. We have—certain peculiarities—You might call it the family inheritance.“_ _ _ _

____John, bless him, was not entirely devoid of intelligence. “You breed?” he blurted out, coming to the most obvious, (if completely erroneous) conclusion with admirable speed. “Vampires can BREED?”___ _

______Mycroft eyed him contemptuously. “Of course not. That would be absurd—dead bodies cannot produce life. No. We turn our children after they have passed on the family line and not before.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“So the entirety of France’s royalty is compromised of vampires. That seems to explain quite a bit.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“This is not funny, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft returned, wrinkling his nose. “Besides, it is only our line that has this—affliction—“_ _ _ _ _ _

______“Oh call it what it is,” Sherlock said loudly, unable to restrain himself any longer. He strode forwards and glared at his brother, before turning to John. “We have a penchant for human blood,” he said brutally. “And it is our own mothers that ensure that we enjoy the pain of your suffering and the blood of your veins. It is our family that makes us what they call ‘vampyre’, leeches living off of human life for all of eternity. And for the sake of a crown, a mortal realm—so very human, this thirst for power, is it not?”_ _ _ _ _ _

______Mycroft hardly looked surprised to see his brother. He merely sighed. “You still breathe loudly,” he said, by way of explanation. "Though you would think you wouldn't, as most of us have managed to cure ourselves of that frightfully useless habit." He turned back to John. “Ignore him, he has a flair for the dramatic.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“Oh and you’re above all that, I can see.” John said pointedly looking about the dank cathedral._ _ _ _ _ _

______Mycroft shrugged magnanimously. “Well—we are vampire, after all.” His eyes flitted over to Sherlock. “Though some of us perhaps less so than others.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“And so you have children,” John mused, eyeing Sherlock. He could hardly have looked more disgusted. “You and that woman I presume—is she your sister?”_ _ _ _ _ _

______Sherlock folded his arms across his chest. “I have no children. If I did, they most certainly would not be with Irene. And no, she is not my sister or, at least, not in the way you are presume. So wrong on all three counts—I forget, is that a new record or is it merely per the usual with humans?”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“Sherlock is fairly unique, even for our family,” Mycroft cut in smoothly. “Which is why I brought you here today, Dr. Watson. I fear that you have no idea of the danger in which you find yourself—“_ _ _ _ _ _

______“And why should you concern yourself? Why are you even telling me all this?” John demanded. “One more human—a drop more blood spilled into a crimson lake. If I choose to trust your brother—“ he swallowed, as if he had not meant to say that. Sherlock could feel Mycroft’s words as they hung unspoken in the air._ _ _ _ _ _

_______**_'Interesting man indeed--so loyal so quickly, is he not?' _ ** __**__**__ _ _ _ _ _

_________**_'And if he is? What can it matter to me?' _ ** __**__**__ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“He has a point,” Sherlock said aloud, circling John coldly. “Why bother with the mortal? Particularly one stupid enough to trust me?” He knew it was juvenile, trying to prove to his brother how little this man mattered to him. But he did, didn’t he?_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Flesh and blood, bone and ashes,” he continued, trying to convince himself. “How little human lives matter in the end.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________John didn’t so much as flinch underneath Sherlock's cool gaze. A soldier through and through this man, even when he was being toyed with like a trapped mouse._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________**'Brave too, it would appear.'**_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________**'Come now, Mycroft—surely you know that our Majesty’s forces can feel no fear? Tut-tut, so little faith in the crown you slave for?' ** __****__ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________Their conversations took less than a second each, but John’s eyes flicked from one to the other, as if he could sense that he was being left out of something. He reached automatically for a revolver that he had clearly concealed in his breast pocket. Mycroft eyed him thoughtfully and he dropped his hand, flushing a trifle._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______________**'In my experience, even most soldiers do not face down the supernatural with such courage, Sherlock. Trust your instincts and be careful—but it might not be enough.Your shield makes you weak, your arrogance even more so.' **__****__ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________________**'State plainly what you mean, brother dearest' **__****__ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________________**'Only this, Sherlock: We are none of us invincible. And you--- you are the weakest of us all, for all that you choose not to remember it.' **__****__ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


	9. 4th& 5th April, 1888

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to do some planning- this story is fairly complex/suspense driven and its my first case fic. Let's see if I can pull it off.

It was the thirst that would do him in, even with all his self-control. Mycroft had left and John was speaking. He might have been angry or upset, but Sherlock didn’t care, could only watch the vein pulsing in his neck with hungry eyes. Too long without blood, it seemed and oh, how he resented his weakness. 

He knew, theoretically, that there were none of them that truly needed it to survive—only sun and fire could destroy an immortal, not lack of a food source. But the blood inspired a heady mix of desire and want, was a seductive pull that none but the oldest ones could ignore. Too many years, it seemed, rendered even the most erotic of pleasures boring and trivial—Mycroft would drink only once ever month and then only to flush his veins with life, so that he might look just human enough to pass. 

Sherlock ought to have been able to resist, old as he was. Let Irene revel in hedonistic pleasure every night if she so desired—but Sherlock ought to be above that, as he had been even in mortal life. Transport, that was all, but his vampire body was not convinced. For there was a primal energy about him now, animal instincts that routinely clouded his judgment and made him weak, made him nothing more than a snarling, hungry predator of the night.

It had been far too long. 

“Sher—“ He was dimly aware that John was struggling underneath him, twisting frantically. But Sherlock was too strong. 

“I could break your neck so easily,” he whispered against the golden column of John’s throat. His fingers pressed into the soft skin and John gasped. It was intoxicating, the power he had over this weak little mortal. He dipped his head and pierced the skin, licking hungrily at the few drops that spilled forth. John froze as Sherlock trailed his tongue from his collarbone to his jaw, blew a soft breath into the delicate, flushed shell of his ear. 

But then his body was arching up, desperate and wanting, one leg hooking around Sherlock’s thigh. “Oh—“

“Shhh—you belong to me and I wouldn't harm you.” Sherlock caressed him tenderly, running a gloved hand down the length of John’s spine, feeling the lush of skin at his buttocks give away to the lean muscle of his thigh. His eyes closed as he placed one delicate kiss on John’s bared throat. And then his teeth latched onto the skin and blood flooded in, warm and living, a rush of half- caught memories and emotions, until John slumped forwards, breathing shallowly. 

Sherlock slid out his fangs and held his doctor, cradling him gently against his chest. His lips twisted with satiated smugness. He had suspected so, of course, he thought drowsily, resting his chin against the soft golden hair. It was the only likely explanation, the only one that fit the facts as they’d been presented. 

But it was ever so brilliant to know for sure. 

 

………..  
Irene was waiting for him when he wandered into John’s decrepit flat, the man himself cradled gently in his arms.

She strode forwards as soon as the door swung quietly closed, so quickly that an unknowing watcher might have sworn that she’d materialized from nowhere.

“Did anyone see you?” she asked urgently. “Strolling around with a nearly dead body- and then you have the absolute gall to tell me to be careful, you idiot—“

“I assure you, I am careful,” he said disdainfully. He stepped neatly around her and laid John back on the crumpled bedding, noting with distaste the faint odor of alcohol and vomit that lingered in the tiny flat. “I’m far too quick for mortal eyes, as you surely realize.” 

“It wasn’t mortal eyes I was speaking of or haven’t you been listening?”

“Oh Miss Adler, I haven’t been listening to you for the better part of 300 years. Is it important this time?” he drawled, folding himself up next to John.

Irene sighed extravagantly. She eyed the unnaturally grey tint to the fabric and settled comfortably into his lap instead. 

“Is this necessary?”

“Well, as you said, darling- the better part of 300 years, was it? Better get comfortable sooner rather than later.”

He stiffened as she traced his collarbone with one dainty finger, her eyes hooded. “After all, we might not have later.”

He disliked that tone. 

“Tell me. Now. Are there others about?”

She shrugged. "Perhaps. I'm simply concerned, is all." But he could see the nervousness in her eyes, the lie in the tilt of her mouth. 

John chose that moment to stir behind them, his arm flopping lazily out and they both turned to look at him. "Well, you've got another mess to deal with first, don't you?" Irene said pointedly. "The army doctor- strange, isn't he? Strangely like the man that Ada Wilson saw that day-"

"Doesn't mean it was him ," Sherlock said brusquely. "There are many, many men of that description in London. I was not lying when I told Lestrade so."

Irene tapped a finger sharply to his forehead and he cut off with a wince. "I'm not so stupid as you think. But let us say he's not involved- he's still a doctor, a drunkard and he is still the one who dragged Annie from our home and left her at the hospital. And then Ada described a man remarkably similar to him- you see the danger he's in? Sooner or later, suspicion will fall on him and then you'll be ensnarled in the case and there will be no hiding for us anymore."

"John would not tell-" 

"Perhaps not," Irene said, inclining her head. "But you'd best make sure, hadn't you?"

"Very well then," Sherlock said briefly. "I will handle it." 

............

 _The Next Night_

“What I still don’t understand,” Sherlock said, sliding neatly into the pub chair. “Is _why_ >?”

John stared at him from across the table with an utterly baffled expression, one hand clenched tightly around a glass of murky, amber fluid. He was still fairly coherent, as Sherlock had tracked him down in the early evening—but, to be sure, it had barely struck 10 as of yet and still, John’s glass was nearly empty. 

“Why,” Sherlock repeated impatiently. “Why the drama, why the entire charade—and now this?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” John told him tightly. “But I do know that I have no desire to be in your presence any longer.” His mouth twisted unhappily though and his eyes caught Sherlock’s, the torn anguish clear in their depths.

“Brilliant,” Sherlock breathed. “Brilliant, brilliant—“ He clasped his hands together. “You might almost have fooled me, John Watson. But I knew there was something wrong—I assumed it was shattered nerves but it is more is it not?” 

“And why should my nerves be shattered?” John demanded. He tilted the rest of his glass into his mouth and licked his lips before continuing. “The army is a bad place, they say.” 

“But that wasn’t it, was it?” Sherlock asked, fascinated. “You enjoyed it—in fact, you craved it. The excitement, the adventure—“

“The feeling that you mattered and that you made a difference to people,” John finished. “Yes, there was always that. I did. I did miss it.”

“You did—but you don’t anymore.”

“I suppose I found excitement,” John said, raising a glass to Sherlock with a bitter grin. 

“No.” Sherlock gritted his teeth and leaned forwards. “No, you lie and you lie and you lie, John and you are so very, extraordinarily good at it. I could take it from you—I could pry the knowledge from your mind and leave you a shorn husk of what you are—but I won’t.”

“A vampire with morals?” John asked, raising an eyebrow. “Brilliant, Mister Holmes. You continue to surprise me. But I have nothing to give—no useful skills or fascinating tales. Nothing current or relevant to add and so it would be rather a waste of your time, all things considered.” 

Sherlock grasped his hand in an iron grip as John attempted to call for another drink. “No, Doctor,” he said pleasantly. “First you will tell me why you are here in London-- and then you will tell me why you slashed Ada Wilson’s throat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After this is where I veer off of Ripper canon and start making things up. Still using the original prostitutes and much of their stories though, so cheers.


End file.
